The Final Problem
by D McVetty
Summary: Arguing with Moriarty was like talking to a brick wall with a loaded gun. In the end, he had to watch it happen, anyway. /Mormor


**note;** Because Moran and Moriarty are totally a match made in heaven. 1,500 word drabble. Written both for myself and because it was yaahoooo's birthday yesterday which I apparently missed. Well no matter. I have this here now. Please enjoy.

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><p>"The job is simple," he says, waving the unlit cigarette in his sniper's face. "I expect you can figure it out."<p>

Moran licks his lips, eyes training on the cigarette. "Yeah, boss."

"No, I need your _promise_. I need you to swear on very life that you will do every little thing I say," Moriarty snaps, tapping the cigarette against Moran's face none-too-gently. He tosses the crumpled cigarette to the floor and glares up at his sniper. There is a pointed silence between them, chilling the air.

Moran doesn't give Moriarty the satisfaction of looking back. He keeps his eyes focused on the distance, hands behind his back, straight and at attention. Any other posture, in the past, was subject to punishment of some sort.

"Sebby," Moriarty coaxes.

"Yeah, boss."

"_Yeah, boss_," Moriarty imitates mockingly, flinging his arms up. "Do you know any other fascinating phrases?"

"Yeah, boss."

Moriarty punches him in the gut. He's too short to reach the sniper's face, and even if he could, he wouldn't want to ruin that pretty complexion. Moran grunts, bending only slightly. Moriarty growls in frustration, taking a step back. "I'm being _serious_!"

"That's good, boss," Moran groans.

"You need to _promise_ me, on your life and your rifle!"

"Before I know what you want?"

"Yes, before you know. I tell you what you need to know, when you need to know it. Now, promise me or I'll find a new sniper."

"I'm not so easily replaced," Moran says. "What do you need?"

"You'll do anything?"

Moran bends to pick up the bent cigarette, tucking it between his teeth. "When don't I?"

"This is different."

"It always is with you, boss."

Moriarty flicks a lighter in front of Moran's face, the flame licking the cigarette before extinguishing and being tucked back into the pocket of his trousers. Turning from his loyal sniper, the consulting criminal paces to the window of their flat. _Get a flat, I said, we can keep one eye on Sherlock Holmes and one eye on our beloved city, I said. What a mistake._ A paper trail he spent thousands to cover up, two semi-innocent people he had Moran snipe while on their morning commute to work, and a bellhop that Moriarty killed with his own two hands. Not that he wanted to, he likes keeping his hands clean and fresh. But it had to happen. And now here they were.

"The final problem is quite near," Moriarty says, turning from the window. "It will require intense loyalty from you. I expect it."

Moran blows smoke out his nose, rolling his eyes.

Moriarty, for once, pretends not to see.

"Sherlock is closer than he should be. We've been sloppy. _You've_ been sloppy."

Moran knows better than to object to the lie.

"True, we backed him into a corner. I thought he had no way out. But he did. He does. I am to meet him on the rooftop of St Bart's hospital. Do you know what will happen?"

Moran shakes his head, smoke trailing up from the cigarette. "No, boss."

"I am going to die."

Moran bites the end of his cigarette, teeth grinding together as his eyes shift to Moriarty. He doesn't say it, can't possibly ask the question hovering on the tip of his tongue.

Moriarty seems pleased with his response, shrugging his shoulders. "Everybody dies, Seb. Don't get so worked up over it." He sits heavily in an over-plush armchair, red floral patterns more of an eyesore than he cared to consider. He sets both hands on his knees, sitting straight and proper. "You will be on the roof opposite of St Bart's. You must not interfere. Not ever, do you understand?"

Moran is silent.

"Do you understand?" Moriarty repeats quietly, a chill behind his voice.

"Yeah, boss."

"Good. Now, be a dear and come here."

Moran moves stiffly. He stops in front of Moriarty, licking his lips as the consulting criminal gestures for him to kneel. He does as he is told, knees hitting the hardwood floor. Moriarty removes the cigarette from his lips, setting it aside in the green glass ashtray. Their eyes meet for a moment, that they are on the same level.

"You wont be needing that," Moriarty says.

"You have no idea," Moran grunts.

"Actually, I quite do." The crazy, short man leans back in his chair, hands on the arm rests. "I've bought you a going away present."

"Going away?"

"Not you," Moriarty chides. "My going away."

Moran is silent.

"It isn't a suit. Its top of the line, dear, quite possibly the best thing money can buy. Untraceable." He swirls his finger on the floral patterned upholstery. "Seb," he says suddenly, changing topics somewhere in the middle. "Will you miss me when I'm gone?"

Moran isn't sure how to answer his boss' sulky question. _Will I miss him?_ The question hangs heavy all around him.

"No matter, I'll be gone, I won't know," Moriarty answers himself, saving Moran the trouble. He tilts his head back, staring up at the ceiling. "Your present is in the room."

Moran plucks the cigarette from the tray, tucking it between his lips as he leans forward. "I'll open it later." He takes Moriarty's wrists in his hands, pulling him out of his slump. The surprise of being disturbed during his sulk wipes away the dangerous glint on his face.

"What..."

"You don't have to. Sherlock isn't..."

Moriarty interrupts him angrily. "Don't say what Sherlock is or isn't."

"Fair enough," Moran says gently, rubbing his thumb over Moriarty's wrist. The consulting criminal calms, relaxing the muscles in his body. Moran uses his free hand to take the cigarette from his mouth, blowing smoke to the side. "I won't tell you what to do."

"You _can't_ tell me what to do," Moriarty snaps.

The bigger man takes a different approach. "I'll do everything you say," Moran says. "I won't interrupt. But you have to tell me why."

"It's the final problem."

"That isn't –"

Moriarty's glare silences him.

"And this is the only answer?" Moran asks. He knows the answer. There is no idea in Moriarty's mind that goes away. Once it gets there, it doesn't leave until he's gone through with it. Moran is quite lucky Moriarty has yet to get it into his mind that his darling sniper must die.

"Of course it's the only answer."

Moran sets his forehead against Moriarty's with a heavy sigh. "Of course."

His hand slides down the barrel of his sniper rifle. It isn't the new one that Moriarty bought him as a going away present. He wouldn't trust himself to use it proper. If he misses in the crowd, if the bullet goes astray and hits the wrong person, Moriarty will flay him alive. The window by the stairs looks out across St Bart's. He can see everything. His sights are pointing directly to Sherlock's chest. He swore not to interfere. To hell with his orders. His hands are shaking. His hands _never_ shake.

His finger twitches, he nearly pulls the trigger, as Sherlock grabs Jim by the coat, yanking him over the edge. Everything in Moran's body is wired to explode, his trigger finger inching away from the end of his life. Moriarty will kill him, if he doesn't die here. Moran controls his breathing, exhaling slowly, allowing Moriarty to handle the situation on his own. It rights itself. Sherlock sets Moriarty on the roof and steps up on the edge of the roof. Everything is going over seamlessly.

Moran makes a sweep of the street below for the faithful pet. Watson is nowhere in sight.

When he brings his sights back to the pair, his heart drops through the floor, all the way into the basement below. Moriarty's gun moves faster than Moran can set his shot. He squeezes the trigger, but it passes through dead air. Moriarty's brains are splattered across the rooftop, blood pooling from the wound, his gun clattered to the floor. Moran closes his eyes, setting his head against his rifle. Breathing slowly, he tries to wipe the image from his head, he tries to make things happen differently. If he had just shot the gun from his hand... Moriarty would be pissed, he would be maimed and his pride would be wounded for life.

Moran lifts his head, trains his sights on John Watson. The faithful. He doesn't have long to wait before Sherlock answers the final problem. As John rushes forward in grief and disbelief, Moran keeps the sights on him. Until Sherlock's body is removed, and the army doctor is standing alone on the sidewalk in horror, Moran keeps the gun trained on him. When all has been said and done, Moran packs away his sniper rifle, tucking it into his bag, and leaves quietly.

There are things to do, and he can't possibly let Moriarty down.


End file.
